


odd little waiters

by witching



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Marriage, Wedding Fluff, accidental proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-09-05 17:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16815088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: in which crowley is a bit clumsy and a bit clueless, and aziraphale is a bit irritable and a bit insecure, and they're both a bit stupid and a bit sarcastic, and somehow they still end up married.“Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don't always like.”― Lemony Snicketinspo





	1. the noble thing to do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When someone is crying, of course, the noble thing to do is to comfort them. But if someone is trying to hide their tears, it may also be noble to pretend you do not notice them.”  
> ― Lemony Snicket
> 
> crowley would do almost anything to save face in an embarrassing situation.

“It’s high art, angel. Don’t be a snob.” Crowley reached up and picked a leaf off a tree as they walked past, turning it over in his hand, admiring the rich yellow hue.

Aziraphale scoffed. “I know you’re trying to get under my skin. It won’t work.”

“I’m not,” Crowley said, and his voice was so smooth it was almost convincing. “You can’t appreciate it, because your mind is too narrow.”

“My --” Aziraphale spluttered for a moment before taking a breath to collect himself. “I am a timeless and ageless ethereal being, Crowley, my mind is not narrow. I don’t even  _ have  _ a mind, technically.”

Crowley laughed, a twinkling giggle that caught them both by surprise. Aziraphale quickened his pace ever so slightly, not turning to look at the demon.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he chided. 

“I know nothing of the sort,” Crowley said with a grin. “Please, angel, clarify your meaning.”

The angel rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out of his head. “I simply meant that I am not narrow-minded. I have taste, that’s all.” 

“It’s not about taste, angel,” Crowley persisted. “It’s about emotion. You have to really  _ feel  _ it, and you’re not even trying!”

Aziraphale sighed as turned a corner, with Crowley just a hair’s breadth behind him. “Tell me, then, what sort of deep emotion am I meant to feel in response to adolescent relationship drama?”

“You’re supposed to root for them, against all odds. They’re star-crossed. You liked  _ Romeo and Juliet _ , didn’t you?” 

“That is not the same,” Aziraphale said quickly. “So how am I meant to feel about the toothless threat of the vampire mafia?”

Crowley smiled, then frowned, then smiled again. “They’re a real threat, angel, but I’ll let it slide because of that brilliant wordplay. You’re supposed to be afraid and unsure of how it’s going to turn out. It’s suspenseful, just like Agatha Christie.”

“It’s  _ not  _ the same,” the angel repeated, more emphatically. He thought for a moment before putting on a triumphant smirk. “Answer me this: what emotion should I experience at the sight of a large, computer-generated wolf?”

“That’s easy,” Crowley said without missing a beat, “the wolves are for sex appeal.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” Crowley replied indignantly. “In any form of fiction, werewolves only exist to inspire lust in the audience.”

“You’re making things up, I know you are.”

Crowley shook his head in fervent denial. “I’m not making anything up! The wolves are sexy; if you can’t admit that, you may actually be too repressed to properly appreciate it.”

Aziraphale gave him a withering glare. “I’m not doing this with you right now,” he snapped. “It’s a beautiful day, don’t ruin it by picking a fight, please.”

Crowley stopped in his tracks, clapped a hand to his chest, dropped his jaw. “I? Pick a fight? I resent the implication.” 

Aziraphale did not turn to see Crowley’s masterful impression of hurt feelings, didn’t break his stride for a second. “I’m ignoring you now,” he called vaguely over his shoulder. “Having a nice,  _ quiet  _ afternoon walk, if you’d care to join.”

Crowley chuckled under his breath, breaking into a light jog to catch up to the angel, who was now several yards ahead of him. He had barely taken two steps before he stepped on a small rock -- so small it shouldn’t have done anything, really, but he managed to catch it just wrong so that the heel of his right shoe broke off. He had but a split second to mourn the boot (Steve Madden, cognac suede, involuntarily gifted to him by a dear friend whose name he couldn’t remember) before he fell to the ground with a soft yelp.

Aziraphale whipped around and ran to help him up. When he came to a stop in front of Crowley, the demon looked up at him with the most indecipherable look that Aziraphale had ever seen on his face.

“My dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale extended a hand to him.

Crowley shook his head gravely. “I seem to have fallen for you,” he said, a grin splitting across his face halfway through the line.

Aziraphale huffed. “Don’t scare me like that,” he said, and half-turned to continue walking, leaving Crowley to rise from the ground without the angel’s help. 

Crowley, however, did not move. “Angel,” he said, forcing Aziraphale to turn back around to face him. “Do you believe in fate?”

“That’s a silly question,” Aziraphale replied, furrowing his brow.

“Plenty more where that came from,” Crowley laughed.

The angel stared at him, unable to sort out what game he was playing. He narrowed his eyes. Crowley had not shifted from his position, was still down on one knee, like --

“Marry me.”

“Beg pardon?”

Crowley removed his sunglasses, placing them in his breast pocket, and reached for Aziraphale’s hand. “Marry me, angel.”

Aziraphale choked on a sharp inhale. “Crowley, did you hit your head when you fell?”

“No, Aziraphale, I mean it.” He moved again to grab the angel’s hand, but Aziraphale stepped back.

“You’re being ridiculous. Are you sure you’re alright?”

The demon rolled his eyes with a fond smile. “I’m fine. I’m awake, aware, and alert. Why is it so hard for you to believe that I know what I’m doing?”

Aziraphale blinked hard, once, twice, three times. “Six thousand years, Crowley. Six thousand years of friendship and you throw this at me, completely out of left field, and I’m supposed to believe you’re in your right mind?”

“It’s always been there, though, hasn’t it, angel?” Crowley paused for a deep inhale. “Can’t be a total surprise to find that I love you.”

“It is,” Aziraphale said quickly. “A total surprise. So surprising, in fact, it is literally unbelievable, as in I do not believe you.”

“I love you, Aziraphale.”

“No, you don’t.”

Crowley put his hand over his heart, his face set with a stony expression, somber as could be. “Angel, I love you. I love you and I want you to marry me.”

“Stop saying that,” he pleaded, his voice a broken whisper.

Crowley looked genuinely hurt. “Why?”

“It’s not funny.” 

“I’m not being funny, angel. I really mean it.”

“Crowley,” the angel said miserably, “ _ please _ .”

The demon slumped, shifting from one knee to a dejected position on the ground with his legs crossed. “Angel, what’s the issue? Do you not want to? You can say no, but -- but not if you think I’m joking. ‘Cause I’m not.”

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth a few times before he found words. “I -- I mean -- obviously, I  _ want  _ to, but -- you can’t do this to me, it isn’t fair.”

“Oh, that’s supposed to be  _ obvious _ , is it? You’re doing a swell job showing it.” Crowley clicked his teeth together a few times. “Sorry, uncalled for. Really, though.”

“Really, what?” Aziraphale refused to look at Crowley, refused to give him the satisfaction. He could feel his face burning red and his pulse pounding. “It’s not like you to be so -- so  _ cruel _ ,” he muttered.

Crowley reached out a third time, managing to finally capture the angel’s hand in his own, and gently pulled him toward himself. Aziraphale complied, tired of fighting, letting himself fall to sit beside Crowley on the ground. Neither of them cared much at all about the filth of the sidewalk on their clean clothes.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, drawing out each syllable, slow and deliberate. “Look at me. Listen to me. I was joking about the  _ Twilight  _ werewolves. In fact, I was joking about the whole  _ Twilight  _ debate. I was kidding last month when I told you I’d misplaced my kitchen. I was messing with you in 1980 when I tried to convince you that Thatcher was one of my people from Down There. I was pulling your leg in 1732 when I told you I wrote  _ Zaïre.  _ I was yanking your chain in 525 when I said I gave Dionysius the wrong dates for his calendar. Many, many,  _ so  _ many times, I have tried to pull one over on you, and it has almost always worked. I am telling you now, I am not joking. Not in the slightest. I want you to marry me.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh.” 

There was silence for approximately one thousand years (if one were to ask Crowley), before the demon spoke up in a small voice.

“Angel.”

“Hmm?”

“When one goes to the effort of proposing marriage, one generally desires an answer,” Crowley said.

“Oh,” Aziraphale repeated. “Yes.”

Crowley nodded in satisfaction. “Okay. Good.” He swallowed hard. “Can we do it now?”

“What?”

“Can we go get married right now?” Crowley’s voice was steady and clear.

Aziraphale bit his lip. “That’s insane.”

“Why? I’ve been in love with you for millennia. What good is it, waiting, if you’re sure?” The demon fiddled with one of the rings on his index finger. “Unless… unless you’re not sure,” he added cautiously.

“Of course I’m sure, you great clod. But don’t you have, I don’t know, friends? Or something? Anyone you’d want to be there?”

Crowley shook his head. “Just you. Do you have people you’d want to invite?”

Aziraphale shook his head as well. “Just you.”

Crowley thought for a second. “Do you want to throw a big party anyway? Just for the hell of it, no pun intended.”

“I did always have an idea of my sort of dream wedding,” Aziraphale said. He tried to keep his voice casual, but his eagerness shone through his eyes.

“Okay,” Crowley murmured. “We’ll do it your way. Any way you want.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “My first decree as wedding planner is that we must get off the street; we look ridiculous.”

“As you wish,” Crowley said, as they rose to their feet together. He presented an outstretched hand for the angel to hold, and Aziraphale took the invitation. 

Before they started walking, Aziraphale turned to Crowley, saying nothing. He gingerly removed the sunglasses from the demon’s pocket and slid them back onto his face, fingers brushing lightly against his cheek. His eyes gravitated to Crowley’s slightly parted lips for a fraction of a second.

Aziraphale swallowed nervously. “Are we really doing this?” 

Crowley lifted a hand to the back of Aziraphale’s head, long fingers twisting in the curls at the nape of his neck, and pulled him into a kiss. It was long, deep, slow, the kind of kiss that fits six thousand years of unspoken love into the intimate space of two bodies and a few seconds. Crowley tasted Aziraphale (red wine and chocolate and pomegranate lip balm), and Aziraphale tasted Crowley (vanilla and coffee and cigarettes). Hands wandered, and Aziraphale didn't have the wherewithal to realize that his glasses were probably getting scratched by Crowley's sunglasses, and Crowley didn't give half a damn that Aziraphale's tight grip on a fistful of his shirt would certainly end in horrible wrinkles.

Pulling back, Crowley inhaled the sweet scent of the angel, keeping a hardly discernible distance between them. “Let's talk rings."


	2. peculiar truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It is one of the peculiar truths of life that people often say things that they know full well are ridiculous." -- Lemony Snicket
> 
> in this chapter we address the elephant in the room, which is: aziraphale is not a Complete airhead, and he has a few questions about the nature of crowley's proposal, and also what happened to crowley's poor boots?

The sun had been up for quite some time before Crowley stirred, groaning softly as the world came into focus. The sun spilled over him, bringing out the highlights in his dark hair, giving him an aura of soft golden light. Aziraphale watched as Crowley rolled over, yawned, and looked up at him. 

“D’you ever sleep?” Crowley mumbled, his voice heavy. 

Aziraphale smiled softly and reached out to swipe a lock of hair out of Crowley’s face. “No need,” he said plainly.

“No need, maybe, but definitely want.” Crowley rubbed his eyes aggressively, moving to a position that was marginally closer to upright. He slipped an arm between Aziraphale and the pillow behind him, settling a hand on the angel’s waist. 

“I don't want to sleep,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle. “I wouldn't miss this for anything.”

Crowley perked his head up. “Miss what?”

“The chance to see you waking up.” The angel's tone was simple, matter-of-fact. As if it were the easiest thing in the world. Which it was, for him. It had become a settled and comfortable routine, in the short months they had been together. 

“Mm,” Crowley grunted. He frowned slightly, looking down to give himself a once-over. “What is there to see?”

Aziraphale resisted the urge to honestly answer the question, swallowed down the vivid description that sprang to mind of Crowley’s sleepy voice, his tousled hair, the way his half-lidded eyes seemed somewhat darker first thing in the morning. Instead, he sighed and rolled his eyes. “Humility doesn’t suit you, my dear.”

“Okay, but really, though,” Crowley said as he shifted to rest his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, “I’m sure I’m quite alluring waking up, but do you have to do that  _ every _ morning?”

The angel furrowed his brow. “Why wouldn't I?”

Now it was Crowley's turn to roll his eyes. “You might enjoy the experience of sleeping  _ with  _ me,” he said. 

“We've slept together plenty of times,” Aziraphale responded, confused.

Crowley nudged Aziraphale’s ribs lightly. “No, angel, get your mind out of the gutter. I mean actually  _ sleeping _ .” He leaned in closer, wrapping his arms fully around the angel's pudgy midsection, turning to press a gentle kiss to his neck. “You really should try it sometime,” he murmured.

“Maybe I will,” came the quiet reply. “That is a rather convincing argument.” Aziraphale paused, fiddling with his ring for a moment. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Of course,” Crowley said quickly. His head buried in the angel’s neck, he didn’t see Aziraphale’s face, but he sensed the hesitation. 

Aziraphale waited so long that the demon began to fear he wasn’t going to say anything. When he did speak, it was with slow and calculated words. “When did you first know that you loved me?”

Crowley blew out a loud breath. “That’s sort of a big question to ask someone at -- at whatever time it is right now.”

“I’m sorry,” the angel said, running a soothing hand along Crowley’s arm. “I’m just curious, really.”

Crowley chewed on his lip for a moment. “Do you need an exact date?” 

“No, I…” Aziraphale trailed off, unsure how to explain himself. He opted to skip it altogether, sighing before he continued. “An approximation would suffice,” he said. 

“Alright,” Crowley said cautiously. “We were in Persia, and it was raining, and you had gone far too long without a haircut, and you decided to get directly involved in politics -- you must remember, it was the last time you ever made that mistake.”

“Oh, yes, I remember that particular fiasco,” Aziraphale said with a nod. He knitted his brows. “Not sure I’m making the connection, though, with the other thing.”

“I’m getting there, angel,” Crowley said. “Patience is a virtue.”

Aziraphale scoffed, a flawless impression of someone who was not feeling 60% of the spectrum of emotion at the same time. “Go on, then.”

“So you came in from the rain,” the demon pressed on, “and you were positively fuming. And your hair was dripping on my rug, and your lips were stained with wine. You were standing there ranting about your political mishap, and then -- then you did something amazing.”

The angel’s grip tightened reflexively around Crowley’s shoulders, and he was sure Crowley could hear his heartbeat speed up. “What’s that?”

Crowley looked up at him then, with a look in his eyes so genuine that it was disarming. “You asked for my help,” he said, biting his lip, averting his gaze again to stare at the place where the angel’s hand rested on his arm. “It wasn’t the first time you did it, but it was the first time it hit me.”

Aziraphale took several seconds before he remembered to breathe, and another long moment to respond. “What hit you?”

“Just that you… cared about me, I suppose. I’d always thought…” Crowley took a deep breath and sat up fully, moving to intertwine his fingers with Aziraphale’s. “That was the first time I realized that you weren’t just putting up with me out of necessity, or convenience, that I was important to you -- maybe not as important as you were to me, but important.”

“And you knew? Way back then, you knew how you felt?” Aziraphale spoke breathlessly, an almost unnoticeable crack in his voice on the first word.

Crowley cocked his head to the side. “Of course,” he said softly. “I guess I was in denial, because I thought you hated me, but I always knew, in a way. That moment, though… that was it, for me.”

He looked to Aziraphale for a response, and he could see the gears turning in his head. Crowley suddenly felt very self conscious, and the angel’s expression compelled him to keep talking, anxious to fill the silence.

“I remember it so vividly, too,” he said, almost a whisper, “because I was hardly listening to what you were saying. I was thinking about how beautiful you were, standing there, and I was thinking about the rug a little bit, but mostly about you.” Crowley looked into wide blue eyes as his thumb traced the delicate skin of Aziraphale’s wrist. “I used to think about that a lot, even before I realized that I -- you’ve always been so beautiful, I could never lie to myself about that.”

Aziraphale spared a little quirk of the lips, casting his eyes down to the place where their hands met. Crowley flashed a quick grin in response and continued, encouraged. 

“And even though I wasn’t paying attention to your words, I heard when you said ‘What do you think I should do?’ I heard it clearly, so clearly that it made everything else clear, too. It occurred to me that I was the first person you’d wanted to talk to about that issue, that I was the first person you trusted to help you through it. And I thought… I thought I wanted nothing more than to be that person for you, forever. And I also thought about kissing you. But mostly the first thing.” 

Crowley let out a long, shaky exhale, nervous and uncertain again. He drew his knees into his chest, hugging them tight with one arm, and disentangled his fingers from Aziraphale’s to rest his hand on the angel’s leg. Aziraphale swallowed audibly and inhaled deeply.

“Can I ask you something else?” His voice was so gentle, it dissolved all the tension in Crowley’s body.

“Now, angel, don’t get greedy,” Crowley laughed. He quickly sobered, making sure to meet Aziraphale’s eyes before he said, “Yes, you can. Always.”

Aziraphale fixed his gaze on the demon’s left hand where it rested on his thigh. He reached out tentatively to touch Crowley’s ring, his skin barely grazing the stone, then pulled back. 

“Why now?” The words were hardly able to leave the angel’s mouth.  _ Timid  _ was possibly the last descriptor that could apply to Aziraphale, but in one question, he came as close as he ever had.

Crowley blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Persia was more than two thousand years ago,” Aziraphale said plainly. “For over two thousand years, you didn’t say anything or do anything, you just… I don’t know what you did. You didn’t tell me. You didn’t ask me to marry you. So… why now?”

The demon couldn’t help the slow smile that spread across his face. “Ah,” he said, “you see, I’m not sure you’ll like the answer to that one.”

“You’re making me nervous,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley laughed. “ _ I’m _ making  _ you  _ nervous? You’re not the one on trial, here.”

“Please, Crowley. You’re not on  _ trial _ . I just want to understand.”

“Okay.” Crowley straightened his back, squared his shoulders, turned to the angel somberly. “You have to promise you won’t laugh and you won’t be mad.”

“I can make no such promise until I have heard what you have to say,” Aziraphale said diplomatically, “but I will try my best.”

Crowley drummed his fingers on the angel’s thigh, considering how to begin. He inhaled and exhaled several times. He chewed aggressively on his lip. Finally he blurted out: “I tripped.”

“Yes, my dear, I was there,” Aziraphale said patiently.

“No, I mean, I tripped,” Crowley repeated, “and then a lot of things happened very fast in my head, and the end result was asking you to marry me.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I got that you tripped, and I got that you asked me to marry you,” he said. “I’m just not following that bit in the middle.”

“You see, angel, breaking a heel and wiping out on the sidewalk is not exactly a part of my image,” Crowley explained. “So when it happened, I was naturally quite embarrassed. And as I was trying to find a way to recover from that, I realized I was -- well, I was down on one knee in front of you. It just made sense.”

“ _ It just made sense _ ,” Aziraphale echoed dryly. “How romantic.”

“I  _ mean _ ,” Crowley continued, “I saw a golden opportunity and I took it. It was impulsive, but it wasn’t an accident.”

Aziraphale smiled, taking Crowley’s hand. “That will do, then,” he murmured.

Crowley relaxed every muscle in his body that he didn’t know he had tensed, melting back into Aziraphale’s side, burying his face in the angel’s chest. “You do know how to make a boy work for it, don’t you, angel?”

“Seems only fair, after how long you made me wait for it,” Aziraphale teased, punctuating the statement with a firm kiss to the top of Crowley’s head.

“Hey, I didn’t see you planning any grand proposals.”

“I suppose that’s true,” the angel conceded. “Perhaps we should both just be thankful that your shoe broke.”

Crowley pouted. “Too soon, Aziraphale. I’m still grieving.”

“ _ I _ don’t have to grieve a boot,” the angel replied. “It’s collateral damage.”

“You take that back,” Crowley objected petulantly. 

“Will not,” Aziraphale said with the same air of childish stubbornness. “I am unbelievably, immeasurably, profoundly glad that the heel of your expensive boot broke. I would be willing to give up so much more than that, for you.”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley said. “You have me.”

“Yes, and you have a replacement pair of cognac suede Gratify booties.”

“So I suppose it’s all square, then.”

“It is, indeed,” Aziraphale said with a nod. “Glad we worked that out.”

Crowley smiled against Aziraphale’s chest and squeezed his hand. For a moment, he leaned into the warmth of the angel, closed his eyes, breathed him in. “Mm,” he hummed his agreement. “Me too, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was uhh a lot more talky and feelingsy than chapter 1 so i'm sorry if that was like, disappointing. it's definitely not as funny but i hope all the love and warm fuzzies sort of makes up for it. love y'all, stay tuned, tell me what u think, etc. chapter 3 is on its way, i actually started writing it before i started this one so it will be, uhhh sooner probably.


	3. it really is quite pleasant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “One of the remarkable things about love is that, despite very irritating people writing poems and songs about how pleasant it is, it really is quite pleasant.”   
> ― Lemony Snicket
> 
> chapter 3 is a superfluous bit of fluff to round out the story, because i felt an overwhelming urge to write about husbands on their wedding night doing the things that husbands do, such as: flirting, anarchist theory, and more.

The door of a wildly expensive hotel room (the honeymoon suite) swung open with such momentum that it made a dent in the wall. 

“Shit,” Crowley muttered into Aziraphale’s mouth. 

Aziraphale fixed the wall with a hazy, peripheral thought, as his more pressing thoughts were focused on  _ touching feeling tasting having wanting _ . His jacket and waistcoat were on the floor already, and he was making quick work of Crowley’s, as well, in spite of the abundance of alcohol in his system. When it came to the point of unbuttoning Crowley’s shirt, however, he was flummoxed.

He let out a small whine, still maneuvering them toward the bed. “Help me.”

“Mm, can’t,” Crowley murmured, “wait.”

“Yeah, can’t wait,” Aziraphale echoed, not catching the demon’s meaning.

Crowley sat at the foot of the bed and gently pulled Aziraphale down to sit beside him. Aziraphale looked at him, his round cheeks flushed, a few sweaty curls sticking to his forehead. Crowley held the angel’s face in both his hands.

“Azzerr...Azzzsss...Angel,” he slurred. “I have to talk to you.”

Aziraphale pouted. “Don’t wanna talk,” he said, “all we do is talk. M’here to do the other stuff.”

“Sss’fine, angel, we’ll get there. Not like -- like it’s the first time, or anything.” Crowley lay back on the duvet and folded his hands over his abdomen. Trying not to think about the  _ other stuff _ , he blinked hard to get his vision into focus and cleared his throat. “D’you love me, angel?” 

“We’re married, you pillock,” Aziraphale answered without skipping a beat.

“ _ Angel _ ,” Crowley whined, “please be nice to me.”

Aziraphale moved to lie on the bed next to Crowley, turning so their faces were inches apart. “Alright, m’nice,” he said once he had settled into the position. “I love you.”

Crowley nodded as if Aziraphale had helped him with an answer on the Sunday crossword. “Good,” he said. “I love you too.”

“That was a good talk,” Aziraphale said. He was teasing, but there was an edge of worry in his voice.

“Mm… 'Ziraphale?” Crowley mumbled almost without opening his mouth, as if on the edge of sleep. He wasn’t, of course; if a demon who was fond of sleep were going to pick one night to forgo that luxury, it would be this night. 

Aziraphale clenched his jaw impatiently, but concern overrode his mild irritation. He knew Crowley well enough to know there was likely nothing to worry about, but he was a worrier by trade, and he had not yet been able to suppress that urge. The mere fact of Crowley  _ stalling  _ on their wedding night was a tad suspicious. Aziraphale inhaled deeply, raised one eyebrow. “Yes?”

Crowley took one of Aziraphale’s hands in both of his own. “Thank you for marrying me,” he said sincerely. 

“S’no big thing,” the angel said. “Didn’t have anything better to do, really.”

“No, angel, I’m ssserious.” Crowley closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Can’t move on ‘til I’m sure you’re getting this. Are you getting it?”

“I’m getting it, dear, I get it,” Aziraphale soothed fondly. “You’re just being sappy because you’re drunk.” 

Crowley breathed a small laugh and leaned in, close enough to feel the heat from Aziraphale’s skin, close enough that his breath was on the angel’s lips as he spoke. “I’m being  _ sssappy  _ because I love, love, love you.”

“Do you, now?” Aziraphale placed a messy kiss in the vicinity of Crowley’s mouth. “I hadn’t noticed.” He pushed himself up onto one arm and managed to hook a leg around the demon, leveraging himself to an advantageous position straddling Crowley’s hips. Leaning down, Aziraphale kissed him again, barely pulling away before asking, “Was that all, or do you still need to talk?”

It was an honest question. Either Crowley had something serious to talk about, and up to this point he had been stalling, or he was simply drunk and babbling. Though he hoped it was the latter, the angel was prepared at any moment to sober up, get dressed, and sit and have a conversation about anything, if Crowley asked. Crowley knew this.

“No, keep going.” Crowley cracked a smile, his lips grazing Aziraphale’s as he spoke. “I love it when you try to ssseduce me.”

Aziraphale pressed another quick kiss to Crowley's lips. “One would hope I wouldn’t have to try so hard,” he murmured, “after I’ve finally managed to pin you down.”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley breathed. “You’ve had me pinned since forever.”

Aziraphale paused, contemplating the length of forever. Six thousand years, since the Beginning. Or two thousand, since Persia. A figurative forever behind them, a literal eternity stretched ahead. He shook himself out of his thoughts, afraid to go too deep into that rabbit hole, lest he stray further from their purpose.

“Perhaps,” he said, “but now I've got you pinned  _ legally _ .”

Crowley laughed, genuine amusement and fondness intermingled, and shook his head gently. “The law is a farce, my love,” he said, matter-of-fact. “The law means nothing to me.”

“That’s fair,” the angel said. “Although I must point out, I’ve also got you pinned physically.” He ground his hips down, grabbing Crowley's wrists and pinning them above his head as if to prove the point, and kissed him hungrily.

“Thank  _ God _ for that,” Crowley murmured into the angel’s mouth. 

Aziraphale smiled, pleasantly surprised at the demon’s choice of words. “You are very drunk, dearest.” 

Crowley nodded, wrinkling his nose. “Yeah, m'gonna regret that later,” he said quietly. “It'sss a wedding custom, though.”

“Which part? Getting completely pissed, or the unnecessary and avoidable hangover?”

Crowley gave an exaggerated frown. “Both, angel, don't rain on my parade.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle. “Now…” He leaned in close, his hot breath ghosting across Crowley’s skin, sending a shudder down his spine. “What say we get down to some other wedding traditions?”

Crowley feigned ignorance, fluttering his eyelashes dramatically, and asked in a breathy voice, “Like what?” 

“Like the traditional wedding night custom where I fuck you senseless,” Aziraphale said, casual as anything. 

Crowley swallowed, closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose, smelling sweat and wine and angel. “That sssounds…” he paused to steady his shaky voice. “That sounds perfectly agreeable.”

If Crowley was going to continue talking, which, statistically speaking, was likely, he didn’t get the chance. Aziraphale’s deft hands resumed their previously abandoned work on his shirt buttons, and suddenly the only thing that mattered to either of them was getting rid of the traitorous layers of cloth that separated their skin. Crowley helped with the buttons, this time. 


End file.
